The early morning sun streamed through the hospital window, casting a bright, clinical light over the white linens. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something far more pungent—the smell of scorched earth and charred meat.
Thor slowly opened his eyes, his mind a hazy fog. His sky-blue eyes were filled with confusion as he surveyed the small, sterile room. He turned his neck stiffly, only to freeze. In the bed adjacent to his lay a figure wrapped so tightly in bandages they resembled an ancient mummy.
The "mummy" was awake, staring at Thor with bloodshot, manic eyes. His mouth was covered by a thick layer of gauze, but he was making frantic, muffled noises.
"Mmph! Mmm-mmph! Agh!"
"Do you... need help?" Thor asked, blinking. He sat up, trying to reconcile his royal dignity with the fact that he was currently wearing a flimsy paper gown.
Thor leaned over and carefully unwound the bandage covering the man's mouth.
"Thor... it is I... Heimdall!"
The familiar, deep resonance of the voice, though strained and rasping, hit Thor like a physical blow. "Heimdall? Is it truly you?"
He scrambled to clear more of the wrappings, revealing the scorched, blackened skin of the Gatekeeper. Heimdall looked less like a god and more like a piece of overcooked coal. A sharp, burnt-hair stench wafted from him, making Thor recoil slightly.
"By the Allfather, Heimdall! You smell worse than a Bilgesnipe's stable!"
Heimdall's expression soured. After being roasted by a mortal's psychic fire and then "fermenting" in medicinal bandages all night, he was well aware of his condition.
"Thor, listen to me," he gasped, his voice urgent. "Mjolnir... your hammer. It has been taken."
"Taken?" Thor's first instinct was to laugh. The idea of a mortal stealing the most powerful weapon in the Nine Realms was absurd. "Impossible. Absolutely impossible. The enchantment of the Allfather is absolute, Heimdall. You must have sustained a head injury; your mind is clouded."
Heimdall's eye twitched. Seeing Thor's characteristic arrogance remained intact even in exile was maddening. "I am not lying to you! I was reduced to this state because of that man! He is a demon in human skin!"
It was a bitter pill to swallow—confessing that he, the Guardian of the Bifrost, had been dismantled by a Midgardian. But to get Thor to listen, he had to tell the truth.
Thor looked at his charred friend, his skepticism finally wavering. "Everything you say... it's true? You were bested?"
"I swear by the gates of Asgard, Thor. Not a single word is a lie," Heimdall said with a weary sigh.
Thor's heart sank. He shook his head like a man trying to wake from a nightmare. "No. Mjolnir has only one master. It would never allow itself to be led away like a common beast."
Heimdall remained silent. He finally understood why Odin had sent Thor here; the prince's conceit was a shield against reality itself.
"Enough of this," Thor said, leaping from the bed. He stretched his powerful limbs, his confidence returning. "We must find the Allfather. Open the Bridge, Heimdall! We are going home!"
The bitterness on Heimdall's face deepened. He looked defeated. "We cannot go back, Thor. My sword... Hofund... was also stolen."
"Stolen?" Thor's jaw dropped.
"That man is a common brigand! A scavenger!" Heimdall hissed, his teeth clenching. "He didn't just take the hammer and the sword. He took my armor. My tunic. He even took my under-garments! He left me naked in the dust, Thor! He is a magpie of the worst sort!"
Heimdall didn't mention that Emrys had examined his golden armor with the cold, clinical eye of a merchant assessing scrap metal before hauling it away.
"You're saying... his father didn't send you to test me? You were actually robbed?" Thor slumped back onto the bed, his bravado deflating. "And without the sword, the Bridge cannot be summoned?"
"Yes," Heimdall nodded. "We are trapped here. On this wretched, dust-filled rock."
Thor stared blankly at the ceiling for a long moment, the weight of his exile finally feeling permanent. But he was an optimist by nature, his spirit forged in a thousand battles. He sat up, his eyes burning with a sudden, fierce light.
"Then we fight," Thor declared. "We find this thief, we reclaim your steel, and we take back my lady Mjolnir! Let us go, Heimdall! We hunt!"
Dressed in nothing but matching, pale-blue hospital gowns that flapped in the desert breeze, the two Asgardians escaped the ward. They spent the morning marching through the streets of Puente Antiguo, a pair of barefoot "madmen" searching for a robber.
By noon, Thor's stomach was roaring louder than a thunderclap. He dragged the hobbling Heimdall toward a local diner, the smell of frying grease calling to him.
"Hey! Bring me your finest meats and ales!" Thor shouted as he slammed into a booth.
Heimdall opened his mouth to warn Thor about the concept of "currency," but his own stomach rumbled in agreement. He was a god, and he was starving. He decided they would simply deal with the debt once they regained their power.
They ate like starving wolves, devouring plates of burgers and fries that could have fed a dozen people. The owner and the local diners watched in stunned silence. After finishing his drink, Thor was about to smash his mug on the floor to demand another when he froze.
Outside the window, walking calmly down the sidewalk, was a handsome young man in a dark jacket. Tied behind him was a heavy, industrial-strength cable. And at the end of that cable, dragging along the asphalt like a common piece of debris, was Mjolnir.
To Thor, the sight was a sacrilege beyond words. His first love, his divine partner, being dragged through the dirt like a stray dog.
"MJOLNIR!"
Thor's vision turned red. He roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury that shattered the diner's front window as he dove through the glass.
"You bastard! Release my hammer!"